A displaced hedgehog is a figure - or rather an image - from Tove Jansson's Moomin books. This is how I can best describe myself. This blog is mostly about being displaced.

Saturday, 5 August 2017

African diaries, part 1: Preamble

I
haven't blogged for more than a year – not because my life has been
totally uneventful, rather the other way round, and I never found
time to catch up. But now I have just returned from the best trip
ever (says someone who has travelled a lot), and I need not only to
share it with friends, but sort and write down my impressions for
myself, based on my diary notes, Anton's photos and fragments of
memories. I say fragments, because already when I was re-reading my
diary halfway through the trip, I noticed that I had forgotten
details. There was so much, and such a variety of experience, that it
is hard to know where to begin.

So I
will begin in the beginning and go on until the end. Then I will
stop.

Three
years ago, after Madagascar experience, I thought I'd never venture
into another long-haul trip, but fortunately strenuous travel is like
childbirth: after a while you forget the pain and only remember the
joy. About a year ago I saw a picture of the Okavango Delta, and
suddenly felt that I was ready for another adventure. I was so much
ready for another adventure that I wanted to do it there and then,
only of course I need a travel companion, and nobody can go on a
long-haul trip at short notice. My sense is always: do things now,
what's the point of planning ahead, I may be dead by then; but on the
other hand, I may not, and even if it's a year in advance, sooner or
later the time will come. (Or not, but then it won't matter).

Anyway,
I planted the idea, and Anton and Kory let themselves be persuaded.
Kory had never been on a wildlife adventure, but after Anton's
pictures and stories from Madagascar she was prepared to give it a
try. We investigated various options, and
Anton insisted on adding Victoria Falls. I
booked the trip and hung it in front of me like a carrot: something
to live for, something to look forward to. Eventually, flights had to
be arranged, as well as all kinds of other things required for this
type of travel, and as it was getting closer it felt less and less
real, even though I read the Lonely Planet guidebook for
Botswana and Namibia back and forth. Since
I had very high expectations before Madagascar and was disappointed,
I decided that I wouldn't have any expectations at all, for better
and for worse. All I knew was that, unlike Madagascar, we would
actually sleep in tents inside national parks, which would hopefully
bring us closer to what we were seeking. I didn't want to think about
how my back would respond to sleeping in tents; but I exercised every
week and walked as much as I could.

Finally
one day I had to pack my huge sports bag and my newly purchased
backpack, and as I started looking at train timetable, I suddenly
remembered carrying this very bag along the tunnels from King's Cross
to the Tube, and I decided to go against my habit and take an airport
coach. Which turned out to be a serendipitous decision because all
trains between Cambridge and London were cancelled that day. Anton
and Kory flew from Stockholm to Gatwick (that was my only condition:
that we would fly together from London) and transferred to Heathrow,
waiting for me and getting more and more nervous as I was stuck on
M25, sending anxious texts – even though I, being me, had a wide
margin. And then we were on the plane, and I slept peacefully through
the night, and we had just about enough time in Johannesburg to run
from one gate to the next. We landed in Windhoek, had our pictures
taken by a heat-sensitive camera, went through passport control, our
luggage didn't get lost, and there was someone to meet us and take us
to our hotel. Almost too good to be true.

At
that point, Anton and I agreed that we wouldn't compare Namibia to
Madagascar, because the comparison wouldn't be fair. Madagascar is
one of the poorest countries in the world. Namibia is one of the
wealthiest countries in Africa. Of course we couldn't help comparing,
and already the very first impressions were different. Windhoek was a
modern city, nice and neat, with well-paved streets and traffic
lights (Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, has a population of
two million and not one single traffic light). Windhoek's population is 325,000. On the way from the airport we saw some baboons and an
ostrich. The driver took us through the city centre, pointing out
landmarks. I felt I liked the place.

We
decided to stay awake as long as possible, although we were terribly
tired, but the rooms were not ready, and the hotel was far away from
the centre, with a courtesy shuttle once an hour. It felt completely
unreal to sit there on a patio under palm trees, waiting for the
shuttle and drinking guava juice. On the way from the airport I
spotted a little street market, which we inspected, but didn't buy
anything; we strolled along the main street, dropped into some
shops; had a late
lunch or early dinner; took the shuttle back to the hotel, and by
four in the afternoon we were ready to go to bed.

I
had read the itinerary, but I had rather vague idea about where we
were going and why.

Digression:

I
am so ancient that when I went to school the countries were called
South West Africa and Bechuanaland and South Rhodesia. I frequently
hear from my British friends that they grew up somewhere in Africa,
which the first twenty times sounded like they grew up in Narnia
before I realised why it was so common. For them, Africa was a real
place. But for me, in Moscow, Africa was totally abstract. It wasn't
a high priority in our geography lessons, so the only reason I knew
about these countries at all was my father's stamp collection.
Otherwise “Africa” was in my childhood a magical country – one,
homogeneous country – full of adventure and excitement, featured in
numerous children's verses:

Dear
children,

don't
you ever

go
to Africa.

In
Africa

there
are sharks.

In
Africa

there
are gorillas.

In
Africa

there
are big, angry crocodiles

who
will bite you,

hit
you and hurt you.

Don't
you ever

go
to Africa.

Illustration by Mstislav Dobuzhinsky for Kornei Chukovsky's verse story Barmalei.

Or,
in a Russian version of Dr Dolittle, a plea to come and save African
baby animals, with a precise address:

We
live in Zanzibar,

in
Kalahari

and
Sahara

where
the hippo

walks
along the Limpopo.

No
wonder my geography was muddled.

Or,
from a later date, my son's childhood:

If
you walk along a road far enough

you
will get to Africa.

In
Africa, mountains are sooooo high.

In
Africa, skies are sooooo wide.

Crocodiles,
hippos,

monkeys,
whales

and
a green parrot...

Admit
that the image of Africa conveyed through Russian children's
literature is a bit skewed.

Since
then I have been to South Africa three times, so I do have a more
realistic view of that part of the world, and I know that the African
continent is huge. But I knew very little – still know very little
– about Namibia and Botswana. Here I was in Windhoek, a city I
hadn't even heard of until we had to get our flights. It felt unreal.
And yet it was happening. The next morning we were going on
adventure.

I
had decided that for the whole duration of the trip I would be
off-line.